Blasphemy Baby by K. Mobley

Blasphemy Baby
K. Mobley

And if things could be different, I would have held
            the knife steady. Made an offering. Praised and praised.
On Sundays, I forget to leave my guilt behind.
            Don’t worry. I can be soft and knowing. I can be
quiet as God. Lately, I cry more often than I orgasm.
            The doctor says this is normal for people with
my condition. I take things with names that sound ancient
            and expired and swallow the whole bottle.
I attempt nothing. All I know is to be too guilty
            and filled with other people’s mouths. My father takes
his whiskey always with three ice cubes but says this is
            coincidence. What is a family, if not genesis? What am I,
if not a series of beginnings? I want to learn closure the way
            a door knows it, loud and with purpose. Everything
enters me and I let it. O Mother, I flood everywhere. O Mother,
            there is so much of me to apologize for.